


Coffee at June’s

by Winterstar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting coffee shouldn’t be this dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee at June’s

Neal doesn’t like being shot, but what he doesn’t like more is being shot for no good reason. Though he finds it hard to actually figure out a good reason to be shot in the first place, especially now since he’s lying face down and feels the puddle of blood seeping out underneath him. It occurs to him that it might be a good idea to find out who the hell shot him and if said person is actually going to shoot him again. Because, really, he thinks he will be an easier target than the first time and might actually die immediately instead of this slow slide down to death now.

It is then he realizes he cannot hear anything and his sight has kind of blacked out on him along with any sort of feeling. A moment of absolute panic hits him and he scratches the floor with his nails. Damn it, he’s been hit in the spine and is paralyzed, that’s it.

_Shit, shit, shit._

He squeezes his eyes opened and closed and it clears a little of his head, or a lot of it. The wail of pain explodes like a something inside of him broke the sound barrier. A sonic boom of pain blasts in his side and he moans, then blinks and he can see, and hear, and feel. Which should be a good thing, considering, but it isn’t at all.

His breathes come in tiny shivers, hitching in his chest and tearing away at something tugging in his side. What the hell is that? The bullet hole, or the path of the bullet, that would make sense, but why would anything make sense right about now?

He went for a damned coffee. Peter was in the car, waiting. He jumped out in traffic and stopped at the coffee shop while Peter called after him with his order. Neal glimpses the pool of coffee and light chocolate flakes mixing with his blood on the terra cotta colored tiled floor. Maybe it won’t stain so much, he thinks, and then laughs.

How the hell does anyone go for coffee and end up dead? He supposes it happens all the time, a car accident, a heart attack, maybe even a gas leak or something, but shot? He finds that breathing has become a difficult matter and has to start concentrating on the task. With each inhalation his breath stretches something inside which is not supposed to move that way, he’s fairly certain, and when he exhales a bolt of pain shocks through him. He suppresses a whimper but fails.

He cries out and it opens up the world around him, as if it is the gun setting off a race. There are nervous people, screaming and yelling. Someone threatens them and another round of gunfire shatters glass and hot coffee spills all over the small café. A scuffle of feet and legs then someone falls next to him and he recognizes the blank dead eyes of the two-bit robber who tried to kill him.

Someone touches him with a grace that almost makes him weep, but he realizes it doesn’t matter since he’s nearly crying from the pain already.

“I got you, I got you.” Peter is there, is the one holding him, comforting him and then he hears someone saying the EMTs are coming. “Hold on, Neal, hold on.”

He wants to say he’s trying but his breath won’t fill his lungs and his throat spasms as he tries to speak.

“Shush,” Peter says and cradles Neal in his arms until the paramedics do arrive. It feels like forever but not long enough.

The next moments move by in a blur of sight, sound, and touch, the most painful of which is the last. He sees Peter out of the corner of his eyes and notes the stain of blood smeared over his favorite jacket. Maybe he’ll get rid of it now, Neal thinks, but knows he hopes Peter can get it cleaned. It is the one Peter wears every time he finds Neal.

Suddenly, he’s in the ambulance hoping for some good drugs when he blacks out and the next thing he knows he’s waking up in a dim room with a woman in scrubs over him. She’s sweet and nice and a little too short to actually reach over the gurney to help him. She tells him everything went fine in surgery and that the doctor will be by in a bit. He nods and fades away again.

It isn’t until the next morning when he is finally lucid again and knows he isn’t about to die that Neal relaxes. Peter greets him and he smiles. For a moment it is awkward, like they should be saying sweet things to one another or slapping each other on the back or something. Neal laughs a bit at that image but it comes out more like a groan.

Peter is there and talks about ice chips and feeds them to Neal and he stares around the small room. He shouldn’t be here; getting a coffee shouldn’t be a dangerous thing. June’s coffee is safer, definitely safer.

He remembers Peter and the Italian roast and first time. He smiles a bit and Peter raises an eyebrow at him.

“June’s coffee is better,” Neal whispers. His throat is still dry and his lips feel cracked.

Peter lays a hand on Neal’s shoulder. It feels warm and soft and gentle. Who knew he could be that way?

“From now on, we get our coffee at June’s,” Peter says.

“Some kind of Italian roast,” Neal says and the drugs are pulling him down again.

“Only the best,” Peter says and leans over and adds, “Rest, I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

“With coffee,” Neal mumbles. “Because I’m not getting it again.”

He only hears a chuckle from Peter before he drifts away.

THE END 


End file.
